


You've Got Time

by subjxctsixteen (astxrwar)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fill, Rough Sex, either takes place during brotherhood or revelations it's up to you, older!ezio x partner!reader basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 13:52:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9237848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astxrwar/pseuds/subjxctsixteen
Summary: You are in love with Ezio Auditore. He is in love with you. It takes an awful lot for the both of you to realize this, and it will take even longer for you to be ready to admit it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Basically just me fulfilling my need for more revelations ezio porn but this can also be read as brotherhood ezio, whatever floats your boat!  
> I apologize already for the shitty italian for anyone who actually speaks it fluently, I only took like two years of it so I know -1 things about actually writing grammatically correct italian. Shrug emoji.  
> Romantic PWP. No triggering subjects included. Enjoy.

You wake up to the sound of the bed creaking.

It’s an hour or so past dawn, and the rays of bleak winter sunlight filter hazily through the cracks in the thick woolen curtains draped over the windows; the other side of the bed is empty, but it’s still warm.

Ezio sits on the edge, pulling on his assassin’s uniform, his movements weary and  robotic. He stands up and exhales-- a sharp, hollow sound, like he’s in pain-- and sits back down again.

“ _ Signore _ ,” you whisper softly, sitting up, blanket wrapped around your shoulders. “Are you all right?”

Ezio sighs, and rubs at his shoulders with a grimace. “The cold,  _ mia cara _ ,” he admits, his voice heavy and reluctant, as if somehow he’s admitting defeat by confessing. “It makes my joints ache.”

“I can run a bath for you, if you would like,” you offer. Your voice is quiet, soft and lilting-- it’s early, and it feels wrong to be loud when everything is so peaceful. It’s rare for assassins to have moments like this.

Ezio is silent for a long moment. You watch as the tense line of muscle in his shoulders stretches and rolls beneath the thin cotton of his nightshirt, see the lines on his face as his eyes screw shut as his breath leaves his body sharply, hissing out through gritted teeth. “I’m fine,” he says. “It feels like nothing.”

There’s an unspoken end of his sentence that he leaves out, something neither of you want to say out loud. It only feels like nothing because of what he’s been through. You know this as a fact, but it doesn’t make the thought settle any better. It still turns your stomach, bitter and acrid on the back of your tongue.

“It feels like something,  _ signore,”  _ you persist, “And a bath will help. You have nowhere to be.”

He hesitates.

A smile tugs at your lips.

“Would you like me to run a bath for you?” you ask again.

“Yes,” Ezio admits, wincing as he turns to give you a grateful smile, “Yes, _ mia cara _ , I would like that very much.”

You squeeze his arm gently, feel the corded muscle tense up for a split second before he relaxes and releases the breath he had been holding. “I will be right back, then,  _ signore.  _ Rest.”

“I’m just sore,” he rumbles semi-indignantly, “Not injured.”

You laugh at that, good-natured and cheerful, glancing at him over your shoulder as you head into the bathroom. He’s smiling, just a little. It feels good, you think, to be able to have moments like this, moments where you can be happy and free of pain and bloodshed. It seems as if that is a blessing the two of you get less and less, these days, as Ezio chases the secrets his father had left behind and you follow, always,  _ always,  _ to the ends of the earth and back, even when he finds nothing-- because he’s your mentor, and your teacher, and you trust him no matter what.

He’s all you have.

The tedium of preparing the bath snaps you back to the present when the pot of water you had been heating up begins to boil over, scalding your hands. You wince, hiss out a curse and pour it into the enormous porcelain tub, watching the water settle and the curls of steam rise from the glassy surface.

“Thank you,” Ezio’s voice is low and quiet from where he had appeared in the doorway, and you tense in surprise as his hand finds your shoulder and squeezes gently.

“It’s nothing,  _ signore _ ,” you respond, standing up and glancing at him-- he’s smiling, if only a little, and you can feel the weight of his approval as it settles in your stomach and spreads through your body, pleasantly warm, and your chest swells with something almost like  _ pride.  _ Mentally, you tell herself to keep it together. You’re both tired, you reason, and not thinking clearly, as he stands there, motionless, arm still slung halfway around your shoulder. You can feel precisely where his fingers press into your arm, five pinpoint pricks of heat against your skin, and the silence and the air between your bodies feels suddenly strange. It has never been like this with him. It’s tense-- no, you think, it’s something else. Something you can’t-- or won’t-- identify.

You turn to leave.

“Stay,” Ezio says hoarsely. When you look at him, he hesitates, struggles to find words, but he looks calm, and you trust him entirely. “ _ Per favore, mia cara.  _ I could use the company.”

“ _ Si, signore,”  _ you respond, complying easily. 

You sit down crosslegged on the floor beside the claw-footed tub, dutifully avert your gaze as your mentor slowly undresses, and stare hard at the detailed tiling that lines the floor and force herself not to look. It’s not as if you haven’t seen him like this before. You’ve seen him dressed in nothing but undergarments, chained to your or shackled to the wall or bolted to the floor in some far-off prison, awaiting death-- and you know perfectly well what he looks like; broad chest, wide shoulders, strong arms, the hard muscles of his abdomen hatched with an array of ugly scars. It’s different now, though, it’s more intimate, somehow becoming a line of sorts that you dared not to cross, equal parts afraid and curious of what lay on the other side.

You don’t look.

Ezio lowers himself into the tub gingerly, tips his head back as his body adjusts to the water and sighs, rumbling and low. It’s strange sound, you think, not quite as if he’s in pain, but more like some long-awaited release has arrived.

The bathroom slowly begins to fill with steam from the tub until the air is heavy with it, warm and slightly damp against the bare skin of your forearms. The two of you sit in a sort of silence that should be comfortable but isn’t--not really. Something is different. When Ezio shifts in the tub the defined line of his shoulders is suddenly plainly visible, and you can see each muscle outlined in the light from the bay window, can see droplets of water clinging to the tanned, smooth expanse of his skin, and you find yourself glancing away, licking your lips, hesitating--

“ _ Mia cara,”  _ he says, in his rumbling, rich voice, and it makes you  _ shiver,  _ just a little, but it’s enough to knock you off balance. “Thank you. For this.  You are too good to me.”

You smile a little, lips pressed together, and feel the warmth of pride as it swells in your stomach again, almost like butterflies, almost, not quite, as you stand to grab a washcloth from the countertop-- 

And when you turn back, Ezio is watching you, eyes strangely dark, face not quite expressionless but unreadable nonetheless, and when you reach his side and he holds out his hand for the cloth you make a split second decision that takes every inch of bravery you possess, something more difficult than the act of maiming or harming or  _ killing  _ had ever been, and it makes your stomach churn with apprehension and anticipation and murky, muddled uncertainty, but still--

_ Still-- _

You reach out to  _ touch. _

And--

His skin beneath your fingers is warm, and smooth, and when you drag the washcloth across his shoulders and scrub down his upper back, he leans forwards and grants you access and makes a sound almost like a groan. It’s-- fascinating,nhis reaction to you, equal parts thrilling and terrifying as you move across his chest, down over the ridged muscles of his abdomen.

His hands grip the side of the tub for a second, knuckles white, before relaxing again, and you pause. 

“Am I hurting you?” You whisper, unsure as to why you feel the need to be so quiet.

“No,” he answers, voice equally as soft. “No,  _ mia cara. _ ” he sighs, tips his head back to look at you. His eyes are dark, but calm, and you feel immediately at ease. 

“ _ Signore--”  _ you start, not quite sure what you’re going to say, but certain that you need to say  _ something-- _

His hand finds yours, dwarfs it, large and calloused and  _ warm.  _

“ _ Per favore _ ,” he whispers, “Keep going.”

Your exhale is shaky, your body is tense, you’re acutely aware of the older man in a way you weren’t before, a way you hadn’t considered and hadn’t  _ allowed  _ yourself to consider--

You comply.

He guides you, at first, up to his shoulders and his chest and down, down, _ down,  _ and you can’t help but think about what lies beneath the sudsy water, what his body might look like-- you picture hard muscles, smooth skin, a few scars, maybe, and a trail of dark, wiry hair leading down to--

You screw your eyes shut, force away the image of him, struggle to keep your breathing even and your demeanor relaxed and your face unreadable.

The minutes drag on, slowly, seconds slipping away one after another, and you find yourself favoring the use of your bare hands over the washcloth, mesmerised in the way Ezio leans into every touch and savors it in a way no one has ever done before, like he’s afraid it could disappear at any moment. He’s lonely, you reason, struggling to find an excuse for his behavior, for why he hasn’t told you to stop, why it hasn’t occurred to him that you had taken this too far. 

The thought occurs to you that maybe,  _ maybe  _ he already knows this shouldn’t be happening, and maybe he’s letting it happen anyway.

There are risks involved, of course, and there are countless reasons why assassins don’t  _ do  _ this-- develop  _ attachments  _ to each other-- because there is a very real possibility that at the end of the day one of them could be dead. Or worse, that they might put their partner above the Creed. You know perfectly well the consequences of such an action, and what they would mean for the cause, knows just as well that Ezio is equally aware of it himself.

It doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

“ _ Mia bella,”  _ he murmurs, as you work away the knot at the base of his neck. The intimacy of the nickname--  _ my beautiful _ \-- it isn’t lost on you, and it makes you shiver, makes something warm spark in your body, spreading through your veins until you can feel it in every inch of your body, down to your bones.

“Ezio,” you respond quietly-- you’ve given up on the pretense of the washcloth completely, and you let yourself touch him without any excuse, feeling the rippling muscles of his back and shoulders as they tense beneath your fingers. It’s breathtakingly personal compared to the detachedness of your day-to-day life, a stark contrast against the anonymity and objective disinterest you are used to as an assassin. 

“The water is getting cold,” he murmurs, scrubbing a hand down the side of his jaw; his short beard is speckled with patches of gray that glint silver in the warm morning sunlight streaming in from the bay window. When he moves to stand, the water sloshes and some of it spills out, running down the side of the tub in rivulets and filling the small dips in the floor between tiles. You see his hand reach for a towel and catch a glimpse of his navel and the strong muscles in his thighs before remembering you should be looking anywhere but there. Your mouth is suddenly dry and you find yourself struggling to remember how to focus on anything except your mentor’s body, powerful and ruthless and  _ strong  _ even after years. It’s never shaken your like this before-- you’ve seen him half-naked and you’ve seen him shirtless and in the time both of you have worked together a number of questionable boundaries have been crossed, but none of it had so much as phased you.

This, however--

This is different.

Ezio wraps the towel loosely around his waist. The moments it takes to go back to the bedroom seem to stretch on for far too long, and when he crosses the threshold he sighs, the sound shallow and low-- like he’s been waiting too much and for too long and he’s finally given in--before turning and closing the space between you in two quick steps.

He doesn’t kiss you-- no, that would be too much to ask for-- but he takes your face in his palms and meets your gaze, and his hands are warm and rough and his eyes are strangely expressive and everything about this feels  _ soft  _ and  _ intimate  _ in a way you’ve never experienced before.

“Ezio,” you say, his name almost phrased like a question. It’s breathy, and painfully soft, but you’re not sure you would be capable of making a coherent sound much louder than that, because in cupping your face with both hands he’s let go of his towel, and naturally gravity exists and gravity is  _ terrible  _ and the towel has, of course, fallen to the floor.

And you want to look. You want to see if you’ve done the same thing to him that he’s done to you, if you’ve made him  _ want,  _ but--

You don’t have the courage to do it. You don’t have the courage to do  _ anything. _

You place your hand over his and lean into his palm, silently pleading with him to do what you aren’t capable of. The friction and the stress of the situation rises until it’s nearly palpable, as if you could just reach out in front of you and  _ touch  _ the solid, impenetrable wall that had formed between you.

And the tension--

It stretches, and stretches, and stretches, until it can’t anymore, until the only remaining option is for it to  _ shatter. _

And when Ezio closes the space between your bodies and when Ezio closes the space between your mouths and when Ezio  _ kisses  _ you--

You  _ melt. _

His lips are soft and gentle and  _ kind  _ and his hands when they come to rest on your hips are rough and hot even through your nightgown. The intensity of what is happening takes a second to register and when it does you feel like you’ve forgotten how to breathe, like somehow you’d become incapable of doing something you’ve done since birth.

Your hands card through Ezio’s hair, rough and coarse beneath your fingers, and his beard scratches against your skin as his kisses slowly grow in intensity until it becomes something nearly desperate, a need for human closeness that he’d pushed down and ignored and  _ refused  _ himself that he’s finally indulging in.

Ezio pulls you closer with a shallow groan, until their bodies are pressed together, and his skin is still wet and it’s seeping through your clothes but you really,  _ honestly  _ couldn’t care less as his cock nudges against your thigh, skin bare where your nightgown has risen up. He’s hard, you can feel it, hard and hot and  _ thick  _ and  _ God,  _ you can’t remember ever wanting something so badly before, not ever, not even when you were a teenager and all of this was new and exciting. Because it’s different, now, with him, with his confidence and the ease in which he pulls you apart, piece by gratifying piece-- this isn’t the clumsy fumbling of a first time, no, this is something deeper and stronger and  _ better. _

Ezio presses reverent kisses to the expanse of your neck, trails his mouth down to your collarbones and sucks a bruise into the skin at the base of your throat-- and when you react to him, when you inhale sharply and choke on his name, he hums his pleasure against your skin, the sound vibrating and low. You pull him into another kiss and his arm wraps around your waist to urge you closer, holding you still with his fingers wound in your hair as he slants his lips over yours, and it feels like--

It feels like you’re being  _ worshipped. _

Ezio’s kisses are sweet and devoted and his hands roam over every inch of your body like he can’t decide what he wants, like he  _ needs  _ to touch your everywhere, all at once, and you feel like you’re drowning in how much he seems to  _ want  _ you, because his desire is honest and genuine and  _ intense _ in a way that you’ve never experienced before. 

He keeps kissing you, backs you up towards the bed with one hand on your hip and the other pressed to the small of your back-- he only pauses for one second before pulling up your nightgown, and his gaze is searching, asking for permission without saying a single word. You nod and you lift your arms up and when the nightgown is off and on the floor there is a long moment of silence before he finally speaks--

“ _ Mio Dio _ ,” Ezio mutters, and then he’s raking his eyes over your body so slowly that you begin to feel warm under his gaze, taking in every inch with a look of reverence that makes your thighs tense up and press together and sends a bolt of searing heat through your abdomen.

He pulls you in for another kiss, nips at your bottom lip and smiles briefly when you gasp in surprise, and soon you’re feeling bare and exposed under his heavy-lidded, burning stare as he urges you to lie back on the bed and positions himself above you, the brunt of his weight balanced on his forearms. You wait for him to do something--  _ anything,  _ really, anything to relieve the restless, relentless  _ ache  _ between your thighs that only seems to multiply, to increase exponentially the more he touches you--

Ezio does nothing for a long moment, content to soak up the warmth of your body, soft and pliant beneath his.

And then he leans down, and he presses his lips to the base of your neck, trails feather-light butterfly kisses down to your chest and over your breasts, pauses for a moment and laves his tongue over one nipple just to see you gasp for him, surprised and slightly needy. He continues down, over your ribcage and your stomach and down even further until his arms are positioned on either side of your legs and his breath is swirling hot over the insides of your thighs, and the realization of what he intends to do makes you tremble in anticipation--

He starts with kisses, gentle and sweet, works his way up from your knee to the inside of your thigh and sucks a bruise into the skin there, soothing it over with his tongue before starting over again. This continues for a long time-- for  _ too  _ long, you think hazily, as he nips at the back of your knee and starts working his way up  _ again,  _ mouth unbearably hot against your skin.

“Please, _ Signore, _ ” you gasp, burning with shame as he moves up towards the apex of your thighs so slowly and so thoroughly that you feel as though you might actually melt underneath him.

Ezio’s answering laugh is low, and it rumbles in his chest in a way that makes you feel delightfully warm. “So eager,  _ mia cara, _ ” he teases lowly. “ _ Mi dispiace--  _ I was enjoying myself a little too much.”

There isn’t time for you to formulate an actual response, and you’re not entirely sure you’d be able to.You can’t breathe and you can’t move and you can’t  _ think  _ because Ezio’s mouth is suddenly impossibly hot against your skin and his tongue is dragging over your clit and his beard is scratching against the sensitive parts of your thighs and it hurts and clashes deliciously with the sudden spark of cold-hot pleasure coiling inside of your abdomen--

Your fingers twist in his hair and he makes a sound almost like a growl,  _ almost,  _ but not quite, and then he has one finger inside of you and then two and then he’s flexing his wrist, he brushes a spot that makes you moan and makes you rock your hips up for  _ more.  _ It’s good, it’s  _ hot  _ and  _ wet  _ and then it’s better because Ezio hitches your leg over his shoulder and yanks you closer and suddenly he’s looking up at you and his eyes are  _ hungry  _ and the next few seconds seem to last for entire  _ years _ \--

He fucks you open with his fingers, curls them just right and hits a spot that makes you tremble and moan and maybe his teeth graze your clit or maybe they don’t or maybe he’s altogether  _ too  _ good at this because before you know it your world tilts and your muscles tense and you tremble, your orgasm wrenched from you hard enough to make you cry out.

“ _ Per favore, mia bella, _ ” Ezio is saying, moving up, body sliding against yours, soft and pliant and slightly sore as the aftershocks pulse deeper and deeper into your abdomen. “Please. Let me-- I need--” 

And there’s a level of desperation in his voice, a level of  _ longing  _ that you don’t think you’ve ever heard before from him, something that makes him seem more human than legend, more real, more vulnerable, and before you know what you’re doing you’re pushing him onto his back with your knees on either side of his hips and you’re leaning down to kiss him, his cock is hard and hot and thick in between your thighs and-- and--

When he pushes in, he does it slowly,  _ gently,  _ easing you down until your body is flush against his. 

Ezio  _ gasps.  _ The sound is quiet, like it’s wrenched from him against his will as his eyes flutter shut and jaw goes slack. Your eyes flicker over him, enticingly bare beneath you-- his chest is muscular and his shoulders are broad and sturdy and his eyes when you finally meet his gaze are hot and piercing, the look on his face a mixture of desire and a sort of affection that you don’t really want to put a name to, not then and not there--

And then the trance is broken, and Ezio rolls his hips up and you let out a short, shaky, involuntary whimper and a choked-out curse as you start to move, using his body as leverage, pace slow and muscles trembling--

It’s  _ sweet,  _ at first, the closeness of your bodies and the way your breaths mingle together and the way that he holds you as you rock forwards and backwards, pleasantly lost in the feeling of being  _ stretched  _ and  _ full. _

And then you grind down and Ezio thrusts his hips up just a little, like he can’t help himself, and you answer with a shallow moan because the angle is good and the friction is good and you feel like you’re getting lost in it--

“ _ Mi dispiace _ ,” He apologizes breathlessly, and you want to laugh at that, at how afraid he is of hurting you, but it’s hard to do when his cock brushes something wonderful inside of you and you find yourself moaning instead. “Slower?”

“No,” you manage. “No. Faster, please, Ezio, I want--” he rocks up, and your breath hitches as you tip your head back, “Oh--  _ oh,  _ please,  _ more-- _ ”

“Oh,  _ mia bella, _ ” Ezio groans, lips catching on your own as he leans up and pulls you into a slow, filthy kiss with teeth and tongue and the scratch of his beard against your skin, and you find yourself moaning into his mouth and leaning forward to chase him when he pulls back to speak. “You want this?”

“Yes,” you answer, and your breathing is shallow and his is rough and slow and remarkably controlled considering the current circumstances, but you’re not entirely sure that you’re able to comprehend anything enough to care. 

Ezio leans back and pulls you down with him, tangles his fingers in your hair and drags you into a kiss,  eyes screwed shut and brow furrowed and his entire body strung taut,  _ waiting-- _

And then he presses his forehead to yours and he grabs your hips, tugs you down and thrusts up and the sound of skin hitting skin is dull and filthy in the surrounding silence, it echoes around the walls of the too-small bedroom and mingles with the sounds of your moans and his ragged breathing, and maybe you’d be embarrassed if there was anything left of you to care--

“ _ Ezio,”  _ you choke out, nails digging into his shoulders, rocking back and then forward in time with the rhythm of his hips, shuddering as he fucks you, ruthless and unforgiving-- it seems like he’s relishing in it, in the sheer force of it all and the sounds that you make and the way that your breathing hitches and dissolves into fractured, splintered moans every time he moves underneath you. It’s filthy and it’s rough and it’s so good it’s almost painful, and when his thumb presses into your clit you make a sound somewhere between a moan and a cry, desperate and strung-out and so entirely unlike your normal self, always put-together, always certain and sure and strong but for some reason Ezio has managed to take you apart so easily that it would be scary if it didn’t feel so, so  _ good-- _

Ezio shudders, groans, sinks his teeth into your collarbone and soothes the mark with his tongue as his hips snap up harder, faster, rhythm faltering and movements becoming sharp and discoordinated, and something about it is making you feel nearly  _ electric.  _ His cock is buried so deeply inside of you and you can feel your entire body  _ aching  _ for it, it’s raw and it’s uninhibited and it’s perfect and you press your face into the crook of his neck as he fucks you hard enough to leave bruises and there are soft, helpless noises coming from your mouth and you are suddenly  _ overwhelmed  _ and you don’t-- you can’t--

You moan and cry out and your muscles clench tight and then tighter as you come, the sensation curling in your abdomen, chaotic and intense and nearly violent as Ezio chokes out a desperate, harsh sound and pulls you to his chest--

“ _ Merda,”  _ Ezio curses breathlessly, words jumbled and senseless, “ _ Mi amore-- Sei così  _ _ buono, così bella _ _ \--  _ so pretty _ ,  _ (Name) _ ,  _ so pretty like this _ \-- Mio Dio,  _ I can’t--”

You can hear him, voice rough and low and slightly desperate but you can’t comprehend it because he’s still moving, he’s still rocking into you again and again and again and it’s too much, it’s sending pulsing flares of pleasure curling up your spine and you feel spent, boneless and flushed and hypersensitive in his arms as his hips give one last stuttering rock and he finishes with a groan and a hiss and a shudder--

“ _ (Name),”  _ Ezio breathes, as his head tips back against the bed, and you feel your muscles tremble as you move off of him, feel the wet slickness between your thighs, feel the beginnings of bruises on your hips, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You sigh, shuddering and low, the sound almost content. He makes eye contact with you, his expression strangely open-- you get the feeling that this is Ezio, the real Ezio, not the killer and the assassin and the legend, but the  _ man,  _ because whatever barriers he’s constantly walled behind seem to have disappeared.

It’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him. When you try to move off of the bed to go get cleaned up, he stops you with an arm across your chest and pulls you down beside him until your head is resting on his shoulder and his body is flush against your own. His breathing has slowed down. The lust is gone, dissipated into the air as soon as it was over, and what remains in its place is affection, and tenderness, and something else that neither of you are ready to identify yet.

“Stay,” Ezio asks, voice tired. 

“I will,” you answer.

The silence settles, content and warm, and as the two of you drift off into sleep, you pretend you don’t hear him when he whispers  _ I love you,  _ and he pretends he doesn’t hear you when you say it back.

Neither of you are ready. Not yet.

And that’s okay. There’s still time.


End file.
